I barely remember the day my son was born. I remember leaving the base in a panic, and then I remember hearing him scream bloody murder and thinking this child was going to give us hell. Everything in the middle's a blur now. He was the light of our lives for eleven years, and then his mum died, and nothing was the same. I was a shit father after that. He was raised by machines more than he was raised by me, and I dragged him halfway around the world just so I could feel useful, so I could take revenge on the creatures who'd destroyed so much. He became a better pilot than his old man, and he knew our jaeger inside out. And he died. Because I made a mistake. Because I couldn't see through the trees clearly enough to know when to stop. All the time in the world can't make that right.
No one ever prepares you for that, as a parent. I don't think anyone can. I lost part of myself that day, and I've lost a part of myself twice here, each time he's left. And it's bullshit - to give us something and to take it away. It's bullshit. Once was enough.